tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-61743602885662941202018-03-05T19:57:42.539-05:00Hijacked by IrelandIRELAND, in paintings and photography by Barrie Maguire.Barriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04734292817835625102noreply@blogger.comBlogger305125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6174360288566294120.post-91711606661859659662018-01-19T12:01:00.000-05:002018-01-19T12:05:57.765-05:00<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-y_p4sbDMVuM/WmIjOXt8twI/AAAAAAAAD9k/qpUiUSl6ITIPS1mD9g1CPDZ-73rP3MauQCLcBGAs/s1600/morningworkoutframed.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="791" data-original-width="1008" height="312" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-y_p4sbDMVuM/WmIjOXt8twI/AAAAAAAAD9k/qpUiUSl6ITIPS1mD9g1CPDZ-73rP3MauQCLcBGAs/s400/morningworkoutframed.jpg" width="400" /></a><span style="font-size: small;"><b><span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;">Morning Workout"&nbsp; </span></b></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;">Here's a new painting utilizing my new favorite thing, gold paint.</span></span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;"> </span></span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;">It's painted from photos I took many years ago in Ireland (of course) on a golden morning in West Clare, </span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;">where the coast road south of Fanore turns inland before returning to the sea at Doolin. There were other horses grazing in the meadow by the side of the road, but this mother and child were not grazing, instead galloping in synchronized beauty like pairs figure skaters. Whenever mom swooped left or right, her beautiful chestnut foal remained glued to her side, if occasionally caught off guard by a burst of speed or a sudden turn. The whole exercise lasted only a minute or two but gave me the memory of a lifetime.</span></span>Barriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04734292817835625102noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6174360288566294120.post-36770455059652784982017-12-07T09:12:00.000-05:002017-12-07T09:13:29.670-05:00<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-NwVoaT3qquk/WilKlyFyxUI/AAAAAAAAD6U/eL6eREQfgHQ9PrczEInu0F5jCu3a5twdgCLcBGAs/s1600/springfever.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-NwVoaT3qquk/WilKlyFyxUI/AAAAAAAAD6U/eL6eREQfgHQ9PrczEInu0F5jCu3a5twdgCLcBGAs/s400/springfever.jpg" width="400" /></a><b><span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;">&nbsp;</span></b><br /><b><span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;">Going Gold&nbsp;&nbsp; </span></b><span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;">Trying</span><span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;"> something new here.&nbsp; I've never used gold paint before but I have to say that I like the way it works here.&nbsp; The painting changes colors depending on where you are standing or as the light changes. This painting is called "Spring Fever" and is part of a Four Seasons grouping, joining Winter (Yankee Winter) and Fall (Stay Awhile).&nbsp; Haven't tackled Summer yet.</span><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ColOFo0Cc6w/WilKkjpOd4I/AAAAAAAAD6Y/y4wS-i8Stp0hNu2xy-wL7QkU-vr0T1NkACEwYBhgL/s1600/springfeverframed.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="696" data-original-width="864" height="321" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ColOFo0Cc6w/WilKkjpOd4I/AAAAAAAAD6Y/y4wS-i8Stp0hNu2xy-wL7QkU-vr0T1NkACEwYBhgL/s400/springfeverframed.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><b><span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;"><br /></span></b><br /><br />Barriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04734292817835625102noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6174360288566294120.post-81740505165170445522016-08-15T18:01:00.001-04:002016-08-15T18:01:36.124-04:00<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: small;">And now for something different...</span></b></span><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-5LaVa9zrOBU/V7I2PlorUhI/AAAAAAAADag/TQ2wSaES7RQuIApUS0djfcmKV9I3MuoHACLcB/s1600/shells.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-5LaVa9zrOBU/V7I2PlorUhI/AAAAAAAADag/TQ2wSaES7RQuIApUS0djfcmKV9I3MuoHACLcB/s400/shells.jpg" width="400" />&nbsp;</a></div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">A few years back, driving west on R340, the wonderfully scenic twisty road along the Connemara coast from Galway towards Carna, we passed over a narrow inlet and up ahead saw a road off to the left winding down to a pier.&nbsp;</span></div><div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-n7KG-BcYV20/V7I3y8bJa2I/AAAAAAAADao/ls-fCVvhko4iYjT-tQyi66uIwOvWnsmbgCLcB/s1600/piersign.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-n7KG-BcYV20/V7I3y8bJa2I/AAAAAAAADao/ls-fCVvhko4iYjT-tQyi66uIwOvWnsmbgCLcB/s1600/piersign.jpg" /></a><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br />Now, I never saw a pier I didn't like. So we turned off the road and doubled back past one of those ubiquitous—and very effective—signs warning us not to drive into the bay, down to the long </span><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">concrete pier which sloping gently into the water. There I found two </span><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">amazing&nbsp;piles of shells, one mostly clamshells and the other mostly oyster shells. They were so closely packed that it looked like an art installation, carefully assembled by hand. After four years I've finally done the painting I first envisioned that day, that magical gathering of gorgeously colored shells. <br /><br />While trying to come up with a name for the painting, I learned that we had been in the townland of <i>Cill Chiaráin</i>, which means, "Ciarán's Church." The sixth-century Saint Ciarán spent many years here. Thus, "<i>St. </i></span><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><i>Ciarán's Shells</i>."</span></div><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: small;">&nbsp;</span></b></span>Barriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04734292817835625102noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6174360288566294120.post-45160858562944234972016-07-07T16:45:00.000-04:002016-07-07T16:45:13.211-04:00<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-KomP1uhB5QA/V36y0wMw6uI/AAAAAAAADYw/P-YcdgryV3wQxuCl9j1X67PSpBbs76SXgCLcB/s1600/dooloughmareframed.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-KomP1uhB5QA/V36y0wMw6uI/AAAAAAAADYw/P-YcdgryV3wQxuCl9j1X67PSpBbs76SXgCLcB/s1600/dooloughmareframed.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-KomP1uhB5QA/V36y0wMw6uI/AAAAAAAADYw/P-YcdgryV3wQxuCl9j1X67PSpBbs76SXgCLcB/s1600/dooloughmareframed.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="350" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-KomP1uhB5QA/V36y0wMw6uI/AAAAAAAADYw/P-YcdgryV3wQxuCl9j1X67PSpBbs76SXgCLcB/s400/dooloughmareframed.jpg" width="400" /></a><span style="font-size: x-small;"></span></div><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;">Which came first, the pony or the frame?</span></b></span></span> </span></b></span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;">Just a couple weeks ago I came across this frame, dusty and damaged, in a favorite antiques shop in Greene, NY.&nbsp; We had just arrived for the summer at our upstate NY headquarters, our cottage by the lake. The price was ridiculously low but I would have spent a lot for it. The three frames that had been rather sloppily nailed together could have been easily taken apart and I'd have had three beautiful frames for the price of one. But the frame as it was was just too gorgeous to mess with. I took it home and wiped it down with a couple of Wet Ones and then slapped on a coat of satin Poly and, presto, a million dollar frame.</span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;">The inside dimension of the frame was 16 x 20 so I knew I could easily get a beveled mirror that size and I would have an instant classic. But it <i>was</i> 16 x 20 and the one primed empty canvas I had in the studio happened to be 16 x 20, so I decided to do a painting to fit this frame.</span></span><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;"></span></span><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;"><span id="goog_129386856"></span><span id="goog_129386857"></span></span></span><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;">I wanted something simple and bold enough to compete with the powerful impact of the frame. When in doubt paint a white horse, so off I went.&nbsp;</span></span><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-PpwYDEs_Foc/V368rinlZ4I/AAAAAAAADZA/-n80kqz7n_E00JTDaAzBvEQBAGAXaq1fQCKgB/s1600/dooloughmareframeddetail.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="310" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-PpwYDEs_Foc/V368rinlZ4I/AAAAAAAADZA/-n80kqz7n_E00JTDaAzBvEQBAGAXaq1fQCKgB/s400/dooloughmareframeddetail.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><br />Barriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04734292817835625102noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6174360288566294120.post-45633746007643901642016-02-26T12:20:00.002-05:002016-02-27T10:59:55.191-05:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><b><span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;">Reflecting on Gougane Lake</span></b><br /><br /><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-b_yifvWW7zo/VtCBErT60cI/AAAAAAAADOA/YO7mjbDr9sM/s1600/gouganebarra.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="125" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-b_yifvWW7zo/VtCBErT60cI/AAAAAAAADOA/YO7mjbDr9sM/s200/gouganebarra.jpg" width="200" /></a><b><span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;">&nbsp;</span></b><span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;">Gougane Barra</span><span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;"> is surely the most calming, spiritually fulfilling location<span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;"> </span>in all of Ireland for <span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;">Karen and </span>me. A</span><span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;"> couple of years ago I painted <span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;">t</span>he <span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;">haunting </span>moss-covered t<span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;">rees of the nea<span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;">rby </span>Gougane Barra National Forest<span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;">.&nbsp; <span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;">Now I'm back<span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;">.&nbsp;</span></span></span></span></span></span><br /><span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;">&nbsp;</span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;"> </span></span></span></span></span></span><br /><span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;">"Reflecti<span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;">ng </span>on Gougane Lake"<span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;"> is a depiction of the s<span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;">horeline one morning after two days of steady rain.&nbsp;</span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;"> <span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;">The lake<span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;"> had risen <span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;">high enough that the water partially covered the</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span> lowest hanging branches of the willow tree be<span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;">hind the ruins of<span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;"> </span>St. Finbar's monestary.</span></span></span><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-8XmhSZTPvkM/VtB5lyQ03gI/AAAAAAAADNo/iFiWvaRcL28/s1600/gouganereflections.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="250" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-8XmhSZTPvkM/VtB5lyQ03gI/AAAAAAAADNo/iFiWvaRcL28/s400/gouganereflections.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;">&nbsp;The day was clear, the water <span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;">e<span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;">e</span>rily</span> still, and it was hard to distinguish be<span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;">tween what was real and what was reflection. <span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;">One clue: a small floating swa<span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;">n feather drifted slowly<span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;">... </span>on the <span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;">water</span>... on the <span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;">sky</span>?&nbsp;&nbsp; :-<span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;">)</span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;">&nbsp;</span></span></span></span><b><span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;">Finbar's Rowboat</span></b><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br /><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4oEFkNfE6l0/VtB7B4qUTXI/AAAAAAAADNs/cotdw0GutE8/s1600/finbarsrowboat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="267" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4oEFkNfE6l0/VtB7B4qUTXI/AAAAAAAADNs/cotdw0GutE8/s400/finbarsrowboat.jpg" width="400" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;">Another souvenir of Gougane Barra, this old painted rowboat is tied up to the lake shore and is available to the guests of the charming Gougane Barra Hotel. </span><span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;">Although it probably never belonged to St. Finbar, whose monestary was located here about fourteen hundred years ago, it would truly be&nbsp; a spiritual journey to row it around this gorgeous lake. Although we didn't take it out for a row, I sure wanted to take its image with me when we reluctantly drove away.&nbsp;</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;">If you're ever in the southern half of Ireland, do yourself a favor and visit Gougane Barra, in the mountains of Cork east of Kenmare, at the head waters of the sacred River Lee. </span><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-kTNKNiThZRQ/VtCH1KqSPFI/AAAAAAAADOQ/5WZlsh1wJvU/s1600/IMG_3230.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-kTNKNiThZRQ/VtCH1KqSPFI/AAAAAAAADOQ/5WZlsh1wJvU/s320/IMG_3230.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;">&nbsp;</span><b><span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;"> </span></b>Barriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04734292817835625102noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6174360288566294120.post-73579135460816889652015-11-02T16:28:00.001-05:002015-11-02T16:28:31.386-05:00A victim of the Great War<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-8u_y4F9XxRw/VjfRkdQOZxI/AAAAAAAADIg/TAdqZ7vBB_0/s1600/DD-27.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-8u_y4F9XxRw/VjfRkdQOZxI/AAAAAAAADIg/TAdqZ7vBB_0/s320/DD-27.jpg" width="243" /></a></div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-CurVgno2JGg/VjfRkjTeW3I/AAAAAAAADIs/dnPsp8AUQrA/s1600/DD8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-CurVgno2JGg/VjfRkjTeW3I/AAAAAAAADIs/dnPsp8AUQrA/s320/DD8.jpg" width="231" /></a><br /><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">It turns out that my grandfather, who died when I was a small child, was an artist.&nbsp; I only recently learned this and after a summer of research and help from many friends and family members, plus a just-uncovered cache of stunning art work from his twenties, I attempted to sum up his life for the Maguire Gallery website:</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"></span><br /><br /><br /><br /><b><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Frank "Duke" Diehl</span></b><br /><b><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">April 19, 1892 - August 21, 1944 </span></b><br /><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Life was not kind to Duke Diehl.&nbsp;</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Born in 1892, he was an artistic child who drew and drew and practiced and drew some more, using old accounting ledgers and notebooks for sketch books, drawing and pasting over lists of business expenditures or class notes, copying illustrations from popular magazines, painting glamourous little watercolor vignettes on scraps of cardboard, front and back.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">In 1912 he married Edith Lueders, from a well-to-do family and five years older than he was. Edith was also an artist who, orphaned at a young age, was being raised by relatives in their elegant home at the corner of 43rd and Spruce St. in West Philadelphia.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">When the war came, Duke enlisted and in September of 1918 at the age of 26 he was sent to France as an Ambulance attendant at the front. While fulfilling his gruesome job he was a victim of German Mustard Gas attacks and when he returned home in June of 1919 he was addicted to alcohol and morphine, and suffering from “Shell Shock,” what we now call PTSD.&nbsp;</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Through the 20s and the Great Depression, he worked as a salesman for cigarette, automobile and other companies, a series of short-lived jobs, that kept him away from home for extended periods, and when he came home drunk, his children hid in the attic. Through it all he was a dreamer, and his scrapbooks are filled with ideas for advertisements or new products, new businesses and such. But he was never able to overcome his alchoholism. When in 1942, at the age of 50, he registered for the army again, his application stated, “unemployed.”&nbsp;</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">An artist by nature, a dreamer, a delayed casualty of the Great War, Duke died at age 52 from a sudden heart attack on a peaceful country road, walking home from a night spent with his mistress, a former WWI nurse whom he had met in a French hospital and who lived in a rented house just a mile or two away from the small Berks County farmhouse he shared with his long-suffering wife, Edith (Mimi, to her grandchildren).</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> </span><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> After his funeral, Mimi sat on the bed in her granddaughter Bonnie's room and cried and cried. “He was a bad boy,” she sobbed, “but I loved him.”</span><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/--9I7bi_BSVg/VjfRkRSPb8I/AAAAAAAADIo/R4g2ICWaIes/s1600/DD12.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/--9I7bi_BSVg/VjfRkRSPb8I/AAAAAAAADIo/R4g2ICWaIes/s320/DD12.jpg" width="248" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">&nbsp;<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-JuvAwcKhWRE/VjfRkbt7ikI/AAAAAAAADIk/AznKWiyMXA4/s1600/DD19a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-JuvAwcKhWRE/VjfRkbt7ikI/AAAAAAAADIk/AznKWiyMXA4/s320/DD19a.jpg" width="256" /></a></div><br /><br />Barriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04734292817835625102noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6174360288566294120.post-62441222909922856072015-08-11T13:39:00.000-04:002016-03-06T11:13:56.592-05:00Patrick Pearse<span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: small;">The Poet who lead the "Poet's Rebellion"</span></b></span><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-9AFUDWT3V78/Vcoo7M1dkXI/AAAAAAAADFg/PVUWV92qlPo/s1600/pearse.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-9AFUDWT3V78/Vcoo7M1dkXI/AAAAAAAADFg/PVUWV92qlPo/s640/pearse.jpg" width="425" /></a></div><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;">This</span> year is, of course, the 100th anniversary of the "Easter Rising," the audacious attempt by Irish nationalists to take advantage of Britain's desperate preoccupation with fighting WWI. The revolutionaries took possession of several locations in Dublin, their headquarters in the huge imposing Central Post Office on Dublin's main street.&nbsp; The P.O. is shown in the painting.&nbsp; The rebels never had a chance, being completely outmanned and outgunned and were crushed by the superior British force. <i>"Britania's Huns with their long range guns sailed in through the foggy dew."</i>&nbsp; Pearse surrendered after six days and within a few days he, along with sixteen other rebel leaders, were executed. Those executions changed perceptions among the Irish masses, turning the Irish people away from the Queen and toward separation from England.&nbsp; </span><br /><span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;">Padraig, a teacher and a poet as were two others among the leaders, had gone from pacifist to warrior in the span of two years but would not live to see Home Rule for Ireland.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;">I used a portion of a speech he gave at the gravesite of Fenian hero O'Donovan Rossa, on Aug 3, 2015, nine months before the Rising.&nbsp; <i>"Life springs from death; and from the graves of patriot men and women spring living nations."</i></span><br /><span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;">I made this painting the same size as my Irish Writers paintings, three feet wide and four and half feet high.&nbsp; I have started calling my Writers series, "Irish Giants," and certainly Pearse, who was a poet after all, qualifies as an Irish Giant.</span><br /><span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;"><br /></span><b><span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;">Lyrics to The Foggy Dew, written by James McNally</span></b><br /><span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;"><br /></span><br /><div id="lyrics-body-text"><div class="verse"><span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;"><i>I was down the glen one Easter morn<br />To a city fair rode I<br />There armed lines of marching men<br />In squadrons passed me by<br />No pipe did hum, no battle drum did sound it's loud tattoo<br />But the Angelus Bells o'er the Liffey swells rang out in the foggy dew</i></span></div><div class="verse"><span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;"><i><br />Right proudly high in Dublin town<br />Hung they out a flag of war<br />'Twas better to die 'neath that Irish sky<br />Than at Sulva or Sud el Bar<br />And from the plains of Royal Meath<br />Strong men came hurrying through<br />While Brittania's huns with their long range guns<br />Sailed in through the foggy dew</i></span></div><div class="verse"><span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;"><i><br />Their bravest fell and the requiem bell<br />Rang mournfully and clear<br />For those who died that Eastertide in the<br />Springing of the year<br />While the world did gaze with deep amaze<br />At those fearless men but few<br />Who bore the fight that freedom's light<br />Might shine through the foggy dew</i></span></div><div class="verse"><span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;"><i><br />And back through the glen<br />I rode again<br />And my heart with grief was sore<br />For I parted then with valiant men<br />Whom I never shall see n'more<br />But to and fro in my dreams I go<br />And I kneel and pray for you<br />For slavery fled oh glorious dead<br />When you fell in the foggy dew</i></span></div></div><span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;"></span>Barriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04734292817835625102noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6174360288566294120.post-37223485117084184772015-06-10T15:19:00.000-04:002016-02-27T13:23:04.204-05:00Why I'm nuts about the West of Ireland<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-RsKC8JYqIuM/VXiLcY1t_1I/AAAAAAAADCA/2_Kfs-zjLEQ/s1600/DSCN0434.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-RsKC8JYqIuM/VXiLcY1t_1I/AAAAAAAADCA/2_Kfs-zjLEQ/s400/DSCN0434.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><style><!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:"Courier New"; panose-1:2 7 3 9 2 2 5 2 4 4; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:647 0 0 0 159 0;} @font-face {font-family:"Courier New"; panose-1:2 7 3 9 2 2 5 2 4 4; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:647 0 0 0 159 0;} @font-face {font-family:"Cooper Lt BT"; mso-font-alt:"Cooper Light Italic BT"; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:roman; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:135 0 0 0 27 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-unhide:no; mso-style-qformat:yes; mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Cooper Lt BT","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-family:"Courier New"; color:black;} .MsoChpDefault {mso-style-type:export-only; mso-default-props:yes; font-size:10.0pt; mso-ansi-font-size:10.0pt; mso-bidi-font-size:10.0pt;} @page WordSection1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.WordSection1 {page:WordSection1;} </style></div><br /><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>Why I'm nuts about the West of Ireland</b></span></span><br /><span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>&nbsp;</b> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">One May we rented a house on the shore of Lough Swilly in Rathmullen, Co. Donegal, within sight of the cove that launched the famous Flight of the Earls.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Just after dawn one morning, as my wife and granddaughter slept, I grabbed my camera and car keys and slipped into sweat pants and a plaid shirt and went out the door into the fresh Irish morning.&nbsp; I drove north up the coast road for four or five miles then turned off onto a narrow lane that disappeared between bright yellow hedges of gorse into the Donegal back-country.&nbsp; For an hour I poked my way up and down the quiet roads, stopping to photograph the gorse and sheep, horses and cottages in the bright morning sunlight that slanted in from the East.&nbsp; Finally I decided to head back.&nbsp; I knew the bay was less than a mile or so to the East and I could see down into the valley to the road that led to the coast.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; But every road I tried ended in dead ends or construction barriers, or back to intersections I had just been through.&nbsp; I found myself passing the same cottages for the second or third time.&nbsp; I knew exactly where I was, I could <i>see</i> the road in the valley, but could <i>not</i> find my way to it.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; I came across a freshly paved road that curved away in the right direction. I took it 50 yards around a bend and discovered to my disappointment that it ended in a farm yard between an old stone cottage and a low, dingy stone barn. A black and white sheep dog, its chain stretched to the limit, stood on alert.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Frustrated, I put the car in reverse and began backing out the narrow winding drive.&nbsp; Driving on the “wrong side of the road” can be difficult but I find backing up next to impossible.&nbsp; I crept backward, sensed that I was getting too close to the left hand ditch and turned the wheel to bring me back into the center of the road.&nbsp; Slowly, gently, my left front tire went off the road and into the ditch.&nbsp; Oh no!&nbsp; I gave it a little gas but I was totally hung up.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; I opened the door to step out of the car and found to my horror that I was 18” off the road!&nbsp; Climbing down I saw the enormity of my problem, the car was cantilevered into the air, the right rear wheel lifted high off the road.&nbsp; The left front wheel was hanging in air over a small but briskly flowing creek!&nbsp; I fought despair and, standing on the narrow road, in the middle of nowhere, I recited the Serenity Prayer:&nbsp; “God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, etc.”<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; A cloud of gloom hung over me as I headed back down the drive toward the farm cottage around the bend.&nbsp; When the dog saw me he began barking furiously.&nbsp; As I approached the cottage an old man in rumpled clothes appeared in the doorway, blinking his eyes in the sunlight.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; “I’ve done a stupid thing,” I told him.&nbsp; “I’ve gone off the road and into a ditch and I’m hopelessly stuck.”&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;</span></span><br /><span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; He nodded.&nbsp;&nbsp;</span></span><br /><span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; I said, “I need to call somebody.”<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; “Wait out here,” he said in a heavy rural brogue, and turned back into the dark cottage.&nbsp; I realized that I didn’t have my wallet, no money or identification, nothing.&nbsp; I was practically dressed in pajamas.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; I did thank God for two things though: one, my wife wasn’t with me, and two, I wasn’t wearing my fuzzy slippers!<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; From inside I could hear the whirring and clicking of an old rotary phone being dialed, and then he was talking… I couldn’t understand a word he said, I realized he was speaking Irish.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Then he called out to me, “C'mon on in.”<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; I entered the cottage and it was as humble, as “mean,” as any poor crofters cottage I’d ever read about.&nbsp; Dark, the walls sooty, a simple wooden hutch, a tiny window across the way, the Sacred Heart of Jesus framed and hanging from a nail on the wall.&nbsp; Through the door into the kitchen I saw a cast iron stove, flames visible through the round left-front grate.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; He stood in the kitchen doorway holding the phone out to me, “He’s bringin’ a tractor, tell ‘im where y’are.”&nbsp; I panicked, I didn’t have the faintest idea where I was!<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; I asked him, “What’s your name?” as I reached for the phone.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; He answered with something like, “Gharrrrahough.”&nbsp; I hadn’t the faintest idea what he’d just said.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; I put the phone to my ear and heard a voice, “Where arr’ya?”<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; “Gharrrrahough,”&nbsp; I replied.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; “Be there inna wee bit.”<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; I hung up the phone.&nbsp; Dumbfounded.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; “Thanks so much,” I said to the old man, “I’ll better walk to the car and wait there.”</span></span></div><span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><br /><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><br /><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Back at the car I stood in crisp morning air, surrounded by lush green fields, birds singing in the hedges, and my rental car, it’s hind leg lifted like a urinating dog.&nbsp; Urinating on me, I thought darkly. And I had decided not to buy the extra insurance!&nbsp; After a few minutes a red van sped past the top of the lane, stopped up the road and backed up.&nbsp; A man in a workman’s uniform climbed out and walked down to me, “How did ya go off the road?”&nbsp; “Ah, you were reversin’.”&nbsp; After I told him that help was on the way, he said, “Well I’ll be goin’ but I’ll check back on ya.”&nbsp; No sooner had he left when I heard the faint putt-putt of a tractor in the morning stillness.</span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4MzRHfl0ePw/VXiLUNEvx2I/AAAAAAAADB8/op0FZYxndyQ/s1600/DSCN0436.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-4MzRHfl0ePw/VXiLUNEvx2I/AAAAAAAADB8/op0FZYxndyQ/s400/DSCN0436.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The tractor came down the lane with a young man at the wheel who parked it and climbed down.&nbsp; I heard a car door slam and saw a white van stopped up the road, two men in Wellingtons walking toward me.&nbsp; Then the red van reappeared and parked at the end of the lane, and behind me the old man from the cottage, fully dressed now, came towards us.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; In no time the five smiling men were standing <i>in the creek</i>, studying my predicament, and talking away in Irish.&nbsp; I stood there silently watching, understanding nothing, helpless.&nbsp; One of the men turned to me and spoke in English, “It’s hung up on a rock and if the tractor pulls it out it will scrape the bottom of the panel.”<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Before I had a chance to tell him that I didn’t care if it destroyed the car, just get me back up on the road, he turned away and rejoined his friends and their Irish-language discussions.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Then he was back, “If we all lift the left front of the car as the tractor pulls it back I think we can get it back on the road without any damage.”&nbsp; In a minute the tractor was hooked up to the rear bumper, three of the men were standing in the creek ready to hoist the car, and I was seated at the wheel.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; “One… two…three!”&nbsp; The tractor pulled, the men lifted, and… nothing!<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; “The hand brake!" a voice called out, "The hand brake!”&nbsp; Chagrinned, I released the brake and a second attempt was made. Back, lift, and suddenly my car sat on the road as if nothing had ever happened.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; There was not the tiniest scratch on the car.&nbsp; A miracle!&nbsp; I climbed out profusely thanking my saviors. They were gracious and friendly, no sign of “who is this moron Yank?”<span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; “I want to take a picture of all of you, my Irish angels.” Grinning, they posed in front of the car for a photo I will cherish forever.</span></span></span></span> </span></span></div><span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-3kL8TKpf4bw/VXiLyNwuPXI/AAAAAAAADCM/ItraFafD2UM/s1600/DSCN0437.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="317" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-3kL8TKpf4bw/VXiLyNwuPXI/AAAAAAAADCM/ItraFafD2UM/s400/DSCN0437.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;"></span><br /><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; One of them gave me instructions on how to get to the road in the valley. “See where the white van is parked, go down that road to a cottage with new construction across the way, and just past there at the fork take the left fork and then the right fork at the ruin and that will bring you to a road which takes you to your road.&nbsp; “Do you have that now?”&nbsp; I nodded, but he repeated the directions again, the cottage, the fork, the ruin, the whole bit.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; I drove away, following the instructions carefully… and three minutes later found myself <i>dead-ended in another barnyard!</i>&nbsp; God help me!&nbsp; I carefully turned around in the narrow space and headed back out the lane. Around the bend ahead, coming into the farm, came the very tractor that had just pulled me out of the ditch.&nbsp; He edged partially off the road and as I squeezed past him, the young man looked down and waved, a broad smile on his face.&nbsp; I grinned and shrugged.&nbsp; My humiliation was complete.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><span style="font-family: &quot;verdana&quot; , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><br /><br />Barriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04734292817835625102noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6174360288566294120.post-6519989252850481672015-02-02T16:11:00.000-05:002015-02-02T16:17:23.818-05:00<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-wyA3U9glw4g/VM_mJUpz37I/AAAAAAAAC3E/nDYe_Hf54j8/s1600/rameltonfantasy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-wyA3U9glw4g/VM_mJUpz37I/AAAAAAAAC3E/nDYe_Hf54j8/s1600/rameltonfantasy.jpg" height="250" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I was horrified to see that it had been a year since I last posted. I hope to make up for that with regular postings in 2015.</span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>Ramelton Fantasy</b>&nbsp; This painting is a bit of a departure for me although it is not the first painting I have done of the world through a screen of tree branches.&nbsp; It's quite large, 4 feet wide, and hidden back there in the mist are two horses.&nbsp; The tree sits about 50 yards from the foggy shore of Lough Swilly, in Ramelton, a wonderful small town north of Letterkenny in County Donegal. </span></span>Barriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04734292817835625102noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6174360288566294120.post-10885359205927029252014-01-07T17:18:00.000-05:002014-01-07T17:18:19.412-05:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-suhe9Wj1Qes/Usx3GvO21QI/AAAAAAAACwE/4l4a3SzpvuA/s1600/gouganebarra.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-suhe9Wj1Qes/Usx3GvO21QI/AAAAAAAACwE/4l4a3SzpvuA/s1600/gouganebarra.jpg" height="250" width="400" /></a></div><div class="backlink"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><b>A new painting: Gougane Barra</b>&nbsp;&nbsp; If you've never been to Gougane Barre you must go there the next time you visit Ireland.&nbsp;</span></div><div class="backlink"><br /></div><div class="backlink"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I just finished this big painting (4 feet wide) of the haunting national forest there, something straight out of a fairy legend. Your eyes can play tricks on you here, and you can get lost in it. The little stream that flows thru the mossy forest feeds into Gougane Lake and is the headwaters of the River Lee, Cork's sacred river. </span><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">St. Finbar's chapel sits on the tiny island in the middle of the lake alongside the ruins of the 17th century stone monastery with it's monk's cells and Stations of the Cross which was built on the site of Finbar's original </span><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><i>sixth century </i></span>monastery.&nbsp; All this history is set in a gorgeous bowl of mountains west of Macroom in County Cork. Gougane Barra as spiritual an experience as Ireland has to offer.&nbsp;</span></div><div class="backlink"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; By the way, across the water from the chapel is the Gougane Barra Hotel, our No. 1 favorite place to stay in all of Ireland.</span> </span></div><div class="backlink"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Speaking of fairy legends, look what I found sitting next to the painting the morning after I hung it. </span></div><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> </span><div class="backlink"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-uMFHUYUKzQg/Usx8_DBu9YI/AAAAAAAACwc/d2SgwG-Jwt8/s1600/leprechaun.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-uMFHUYUKzQg/Usx8_DBu9YI/AAAAAAAACwc/d2SgwG-Jwt8/s1600/leprechaun.jpg" height="267" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="backlink"><br /></div>Barriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04734292817835625102noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6174360288566294120.post-72074293001687000132013-08-30T09:49:00.001-04:002013-08-30T09:56:18.417-04:00<br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Seamus Heaney passed away today.</span></span><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_j70y-TSS3ro/S9bxRv6YfFI/AAAAAAAABpk/ZrJi5U-Mp2E/s1600/IMG_0375.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" height="240" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5464820485082086482" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_j70y-TSS3ro/S9bxRv6YfFI/AAAAAAAABpk/ZrJi5U-Mp2E/s320/IMG_0375.jpg" style="float: left; height: 244px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 324px;" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: small;">As my good friend and poet, Denise Blake, put it, "A gentle man goes to his rest."</span><br /><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: small;">A few years back I had my moment with Seamus and I wrote about it.<span style="font-weight: bold;"> </span></span><br /><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Seamus Heaney is in the room</span><br /><br />On Tuesday the 20th, Karen and I attended a reception and poetry reading by Seamus Heaney and Peter Fallon at Villanova U. A great night. At the reception, my new painting was stuck in the corner but made a dramatic backdrop to the festivities. I was, of course, very nervous that he might just hate the painting... insecurity, thy name is Barrie!<br /><br />(I've now painted all four Irish Nobel Laureates -- Joyce, Yeats, Beckett and now, Heaney.)<br /><br />When Karen and I were able to make our way over to and speak with Seamus, I introduced myself as the painter of the portrait, he smiled and greeted me graciously. Karen introduced herself as the "Calendar Girl" because she had corresponded with him over the use of some of his poetry in our Ireland Calendar. Gesturing across the room towards where the painting sat in the distance, he told me he hadn't had a chance to get a good look at the painting, and leaning closer he said, "I didn't want to seem to be genuflecting to my own image." </span><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: small;"> We laughed and he said, "But I think looking at it with the artist would be acceptable," and he took my elbow and guided me through the crowd to the painting.<br /><br />When we got to the painting, he was surprised to see that there are lines from his poetry in the painting, and we were just beginning to talk about that when Jim Murphy's voice came over the loudspeaker announcing the beginning of the speaking part of the evening. Thus ended my </span><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: small;">tête-à-tête with Ireland's greatest living poet. </span><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: small;">Karen snapped this photo as the speakers began.</span><br /><span style="font-family: verdana;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>Barriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04734292817835625102noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6174360288566294120.post-50035480745114871882013-05-02T12:05:00.000-04:002013-05-02T12:06:08.827-04:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-9JkWsiI043A/UYKLMwi8uNI/AAAAAAAACHY/24hMRf_yjbg/s1600/P1000109.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="345" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-9JkWsiI043A/UYKLMwi8uNI/AAAAAAAACHY/24hMRf_yjbg/s400/P1000109.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><b>I took the coast road</b> <span style="font-size: x-small;">W</span>est out of Galway and then turn<span style="font-size: x-small;">ed into the interior </span>and came across t<span style="font-size: x-small;">his beautiful<span style="font-size: x-small;">, muscular<span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span>Connemara <span style="font-size: x-small;">pony.&nbsp; For me, the stone wall and rugged N<span style="font-size: x-small;">ovember plant life turned<span style="font-size: x-small;"> the simple act of</span></span> </span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">grazing into a wild, thrilling thing. Call me crazy but that's the way I sees it.</span>Barriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04734292817835625102noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6174360288566294120.post-55361617339119162402013-04-18T15:56:00.000-04:002013-05-02T12:06:19.313-04:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ddN-T-QZtCM/UXBMUFSOiJI/AAAAAAAACHA/ETgkkjFi9mA/s1600/celticroundup.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ddN-T-QZtCM/UXBMUFSOiJI/AAAAAAAACHA/ETgkkjFi9mA/s400/celticroundup.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="storytimeflushleft"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span class="printinfo"><span class="printinfo"><span class="printinfo"><span class="printinfo"><span class="printinfo"><b>Driving into Ardara</b><span style="font-size: x-small;"><b>,</b> </span>County Donegal, one November day, from our cottage in Crumlin along the shores of Loughros Beg, we came across a small flock of sheep being brought down a hill to our left by a pair of sheepdogs and a farmer. I screeched to a halt at the side of the road but my vision was blocked by the hedgerow. I stood on the car door sill and held the camera high over my head as high as I could reach and fired away, shooting video, not knowing what the camera was recording.&nbsp; I got lucky and captured a great bit of video which became part of a larger video called <i>Ireland in November</i>. (You can see it on my <a href="http://www.maguiregallery.com/barrie/videos.htm">video page</a> on my website.)</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div class="storytimeflushleft"><br /></div><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> </span></span><br /><div class="printinfo"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">It was a year la<span style="font-size: x-small;">ter when </span>I began this painting, because I <span style="font-size: x-small;">was a little afraid of it, <span style="font-size: x-small;">I knew it would </span></span>be difficult and I really d<span style="font-size: x-small;">idn't know how I was going to handle the hedgerow.&nbsp; And </span>it did prove to be a hard slog, but after about three times as many paint<span style="font-size: x-small;">i</span>ng se<span style="font-size: x-small;">ssions </span>as is normal, I declared it finished. Leonardo da Vinci said, "Art is never finished, only<span style="font-size: x-small;"> abandoned<span style="font-size: x-small;">.</span>" And so it goes.</span></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ddN-T-QZtCM/UXBMUFSOiJI/AAAAAAAACHA/ETgkkjFi9mA/s1600/celticroundup.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />Barriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04734292817835625102noreply@blogger.com0Ireland54.771385204918566 -8.4732055664062554.698105204918569 -8.63456706640625 54.844665204918563 -8.31184406640625tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6174360288566294120.post-11393892658595560892013-03-27T09:58:00.001-04:002013-03-27T10:01:16.459-04:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/--lEZWrTE6Ns/UVL3QlMgyoI/AAAAAAAACFY/L-Q8CXljV08/s1600/IMG_6764.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="285" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/--lEZWrTE6Ns/UVL3QlMgyoI/AAAAAAAACFY/L-Q8CXljV08/s400/IMG_6764.JPG" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span id="goog_564060185"></span><span id="goog_564060186"></span></div><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><b>Celt-Iberia Traders in New Hope</b>&nbsp; Last week Karen and I hung a bunch <span style="font-size: x-small;">of new paintings and prints at Celt-Iberia Traders in New Hope, PA.&nbsp; <span style="font-size: x-small;">They <span style="font-size: x-small;">bring in the work of <span style="font-size: x-small;">C</span>eltic artists (fabric, pottery, <span style="font-size: x-small;">jewelry, etc.) from Ireland and <span style="font-size: x-small;">Spain.&nbsp; Bel<span style="font-size: x-small;">ieve me,</span> this is the classiest Celtic sh<span style="font-size: x-small;">op you'll find anywhere.&nbsp; Many on<span style="font-size: x-small;">e</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">-of-a-kind products.</span> <span style="font-size: x-small;">We have been collaborating for years and they are the only shop that carries my Irish Quilts. (Real quilts, not the pain<span style="font-size: x-small;">ting series of the same name<span style="font-size: x-small;">). <span style="font-size: x-small;">They're located in a historic 150 year old stone building right in the parking lot <span style="font-size: x-small;">of the Bu<span style="font-size: x-small;">cks County Playhouse, the legendary summe<span style="font-size: x-small;">r stock venue that has just been brought back to life after <span style="font-size: x-small;">being closed for <span style="font-size: x-small;">many</span> years. In August<span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span>I'll be having a <span style="font-size: x-small;">show of my new paintings there; the opening is Aug. 17th. </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span>Y'all come?</span></span>Barriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04734292817835625102noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6174360288566294120.post-60330796530797531222013-03-06T11:07:00.002-05:002013-03-06T11:10:38.417-05:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-kFQUEZyCnDA/UTdj8EqvuMI/AAAAAAAACEo/_CWP9Q_zssI/s1600/Loughrosbegdawn.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="251" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-kFQUEZyCnDA/UTdj8EqvuMI/AAAAAAAACEo/_CWP9Q_zssI/s400/Loughrosbegdawn.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><b>Sinead</b></span> was the name we gave the piebald pony in the little field across the road from our rental cottage in Crumlin, a tiny townland on the Loughros Beg penninsula just west of Ardara (Arr-DRA) in SW Donegal. The most beautiful setting in which we've ever found ourselves staying in Ireland. As far as I'm concerned, for a painter or photographer, Donegal is the most inspirational and subject-rich county in Ireland, and that's really saying something!&nbsp; This is the second painting I've done from that visit (see painting to the right) and there will be more to come.&nbsp;</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">On the November morning that we reluctantly left for the drive to the Dublin airport, there was frost on the grasses and tidal bay was filled with mist, lit by a brand new sun in the East.&nbsp; A scene right out of a fairytale. As always, Sinead was there... but she didn't even turn around to say goodbye though we called her name over and over.&nbsp; </span>Barriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04734292817835625102noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6174360288566294120.post-57035021898384389772013-02-25T08:57:00.000-05:002013-02-25T08:58:49.939-05:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YV7eR-fiDf4/USttUST8gtI/AAAAAAAACEM/YaLyrWqC194/s1600/innishmaanpony.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YV7eR-fiDf4/USttUST8gtI/AAAAAAAACEM/YaLyrWqC194/s400/innishmaanpony.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><b><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">stone walls</span></b>&nbsp; <span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span class="printinfo"><span class="printinfo"><span class="printinfo"><span class="printinfo"><span class="printinfo">&nbsp; Two amazing days on Innishmaan in May of 2012 led to a dozen painting ideas.&nbsp; I thought I had seen stone walls before, but noooooo.&nbsp;</span></span></span></span></span></span><br /><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span class="printinfo"><span class="printinfo"><span class="printinfo"><span class="printinfo"><span class="printinfo">&nbsp;</span></span></span></span></span></span> <br /><div class="storytimeflushleft"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span class="printinfo"><span class="printinfo"><span class="printinfo"><span class="printinfo"><span class="printinfo"> &nbsp;&nbsp; On our walk through the&nbsp;empty village the first afternoon we came across </span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span class="printinfo"><span class="printinfo"><span class="printinfo"><span class="printinfo"><span class="printinfo">an old woman who was tottering along with a cane and was having difficulty filling a pail of water for her cow; I offered to help and a</span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span class="printinfo"><span class="printinfo"><span class="printinfo"><span class="printinfo"><span class="printinfo"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span class="printinfo"><span class="printinfo"><span class="printinfo"><span class="printinfo"><span class="printinfo">fter we had together filled the bucket the old woman thanked me and, as we walked away, called out a blessing to me, twice, in English and again in Irish.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span> </div><div class="storytimeflushleft"><br /></div><div class="storytimeflushleft"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span class="printinfo"><span class="printinfo"><span class="printinfo"><span class="printinfo"><span class="printinfo">&nbsp;&nbsp; That evening at the hotel pub, I struck up a conversation with the Innishmaan Postmistress who was seated next to me at the bar. I told her about the meeting with the old woman and she asked, </span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span class="printinfo"><span class="printinfo"><span class="printinfo"><span class="printinfo"><span class="printinfo">"What did she look like?" I described her and she rolled her eyes, "That was my mother. She didn't need to be watering that cow. My brother takes care of that." Only in Ireland.&nbsp; Innismaan is Ireland in it's purest form.</span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div class="storytimeflushleft"><br /></div><div class="storytimeflushleft"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span class="printinfo"><span class="printinfo"><span class="printinfo"><span class="printinfo"><span class="printinfo">&nbsp;</span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span class="printinfo"><span class="printinfo"><span class="printinfo"><span class="printinfo"><span class="printinfo">&nbsp; I decided to put the old woman in a painting and so here she is bringing water, not to her cow, but to this beautiful Connemara Pony.</span></span></span></span></span></span></div><br />Barriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04734292817835625102noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6174360288566294120.post-62903642715431109362012-08-10T11:16:00.002-04:002012-08-10T11:16:50.481-04:00<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: x-small;">"The Beautiful is as useful as the useful.&nbsp; Perhaps more so."</span></b></div><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Victor Hugo in Les Miserables </span>Barriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04734292817835625102noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6174360288566294120.post-14124721899926732012-07-25T18:32:00.001-04:002012-07-25T18:40:07.548-04:00<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2lLsJFfVWcw/UBBuSN2bVsI/AAAAAAAACBU/3loJ94G49xA/s1600/lesson.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2lLsJFfVWcw/UBBuSN2bVsI/AAAAAAAACBU/3loJ94G49xA/s400/lesson.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><b><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">2012 Quilt Festival in Galway&nbsp;&nbsp; </span></b><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Last summer, I painted, “The Lesson” for Jim West and the 2012 International Quilt Festival of Ireland.&nbsp; The festival was held in Galway, Ireland, in early June.&nbsp; Its theme was “Passing on the art of Quilting” and my painting shows an older woman (Mom? Auntie?) giving a quilting lesson to a pre-teen family member.&nbsp; We attended the festival and this image was everywhere, from commemorative posters and prints to </span><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">huge banners at the top of Shop Street in Galway... not to mention </span><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">refrigerator magnets and mouse pads!&nbsp; It was an amazing experience, the crowds were huge with attendees from all over the world… and the quilts -- my God! -- were mind-blowing!</span></span></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fFMN2zesJ80/UBBxb1oA88I/AAAAAAAACBw/NyMK_wK-Vlw/s1600/IMG_3475.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-fFMN2zesJ80/UBBxb1oA88I/AAAAAAAACBw/NyMK_wK-Vlw/s200/IMG_3475.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">At the opening reception we sat at a table with the oldest and the youngest quilters in Ireland.&nbsp; When the darling 7-year old child, Maeve, from Limerick, was introduced to the audience she was gracious and composed.&nbsp; When asked, “How long have you been quilting?” she answered, “All my life.”&nbsp; The crowd went wild.&nbsp; Then the oldest quilter, a charming 94 year old from Donegal, was helped to the stage.&nbsp; She was introduced and asked, “What advice do you have for Maeve?”&nbsp; She said, “When you start something, finish it.”&nbsp; Now those are words to live by. I’ve got them taped up on the wall next to my easel.</span></span><br /><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">&nbsp; </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-m0BmY2qmw-M/UBBxYdIiVVI/AAAAAAAACBg/5ycIAghniu0/s1600/IMG_3451.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-m0BmY2qmw-M/UBBxYdIiVVI/AAAAAAAACBg/5ycIAghniu0/s320/IMG_3451.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-WPwhqmQe49o/UBBxaTnxKYI/AAAAAAAACBo/6E9U8jfRgnc/s1600/IMG_3453.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-WPwhqmQe49o/UBBxaTnxKYI/AAAAAAAACBo/6E9U8jfRgnc/s320/IMG_3453.jpeg" width="267" /></a></div>Barriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04734292817835625102noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6174360288566294120.post-77633977890652572162012-03-10T17:46:00.000-05:002012-03-10T17:46:41.640-05:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.maguiregallery.com/barrie/kilmainham.htm" target="_blank"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Zx5muSM0d0Q/T1vVMumWxrI/AAAAAAAAB_A/VQlVy1fspKs/s400/kilmainhamframed.jpg" width="400" /></a>&nbsp;</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">The original Man-cave&nbsp;&nbsp; </span></span></b><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">This new painting is of the dungeon cells in Killmainham Gaol in Dublin.&nbsp; Here the captured rebels of the 1916 Easter Rising were held before many of them were executed.&nbsp; Their deaths turned Irish public opinion once and for all against the Queen and towards the rebels who had been considered extremists by many of the Irish population. Five years later Ireland had "independence" although on terms that divided the country and led to the bloody two-year Irish Civil war.&nbsp; In 1936, twenty years after being locked up in Killmainham, </span><span class="fn" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Éamon de Valera became president of Ireland.&nbsp;</span></span> </div>Barriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04734292817835625102noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6174360288566294120.post-65711860066787736852012-01-29T17:25:00.001-05:002012-01-29T17:29:06.086-05:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-WrL62zrdKGY/TyXBw4iWHaI/AAAAAAAAB9Y/CeVwq4lKTtY/s1600/stbrendanscove.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-WrL62zrdKGY/TyXBw4iWHaI/AAAAAAAAB9Y/CeVwq4lKTtY/s400/stbrendanscove.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><b>St Brendan's Cove</b>&nbsp; -&nbsp; I just can't resist rust these days. This rusty winch sits at the top of the concrete ramp at St. Brendan's Cove, on the north shore of the Dingle Peninsula.&nbsp;&nbsp; From this tiny protected cove, </span></span><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span class="printinfo" style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span class="printinfo"><span class="printinfo"><span class="printinfo"><span class="printinfo">St. Brendan sailed on his 6th century voyage of discovery to among other places (dare I say it?) </span></span></span></span>North America.&nbsp; </span></span><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">There's a nice monument to St. Brendan, the Patron Saint of Mariners, at the top of the windy narrow road that winds down to the lonely little pier.</span></span>Barriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04734292817835625102noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6174360288566294120.post-49974015675479965702012-01-23T08:18:00.002-05:002012-01-23T08:20:42.097-05:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-7byvrv2xC1I/Tx1aS8z9fTI/AAAAAAAAB9E/HS-AXxRuEoY/s1600/okie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-7byvrv2xC1I/Tx1aS8z9fTI/AAAAAAAAB9E/HS-AXxRuEoY/s400/okie.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><b><span style="font-size: x-small;">Okie&nbsp; -&nbsp; </span></b><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Okay, this isn't exactly Irish in nature, but it's got a nice story behind it.&nbsp; Karen and I were hiking up near our Echo Lake cottage in October of 2010 and came across this rusted 1950 Ford truck parked in the woods.&nbsp; The word "FARM" on the license really spoke to me... and I took several photos of it.&nbsp; Last summer I did this painting.</span></span></div><br /><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">A few days ago I entered it in a juried art show at "Studio B" a hip little gallery in Boyertown, PA, a few miles from the family farm that I'd been going to since I was a small child. The show was entitled "Farm" so I knew I had to enter "Okie."&nbsp; Well, at the opening last Friday I found out that the painting had won "Best in Show."&nbsp;</span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">John Buck, o</span></span><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">ur friend at Echo Lake who had owned the truck, told me some stories about this truck, which they had named "Okie," and I asked him to write down his recollections.&nbsp; Read on...</span></span><br /><br /><b><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">John Buck's memories of</i><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> Okie</span></span></b><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> </span></span><br /><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span></span><br /><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I think Okie was a 1950 Ford F-600 with a gray steel van body when I first saw her in about 1978. The main chassis was quite sound for such an old vehicle -- she had never seen a NY road-salt winter -- and she ran well. The engine was a flathead straight-six displacing 300 cubic inches and the transmission was a 5-speed with no synchromesh. There were no power steering or brakes, so driving was work.&nbsp;</span></span><br /><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">&nbsp;</span></span> <br /><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; A friend at work told me he knew of a woman who had driven non-stop from Oklahoma to Dryden, NY, with all the family's worldly possessions in a truck,&nbsp;the whole fatherless family riding in the cab. The woman needed cash badly and sold the truck to me for $235 cash.&nbsp;</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; I drove it to Echo Lake with the Oklahoma plates still on it and learned what a non-synchromesh transmission meant (you have to double clutch every time you change a gear and it was a heavy, strong clutch). I immediately informed my brother-in-law, John Buchholz, that he had become half owner of Okie for a contribution of $117.50. He didn’t seem unhappy.</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span> <span style="font-size: x-small;"> &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; The first project I remember was using Okie to pickup firewood blocks on our land across the Lake near the log cabin hunting lodge. It was a Thanksgiving Holiday weekend with sloppy snow on the ground. Okie immediately got stuck and I walked back through the woods to get some help. Larry Buchholz (maybe 12-13 years old?) and some number of his younger brothers (and probably Andy Shaffner too) came over and we used the 8-N tractor, a cumalong, chains, and back power to get Okie out of the roadside ditch. I learned that Okie was too grand a lady to do mundane chores like a pickup truck would do. &nbsp;&nbsp;</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Another of Okie’s early projects was to pickup some rough-cut lumber down at Beardsley Brothers’ Sawmill by the Genegantslet Creek. John B. and I and his young sons went down and loaded the very heavy hemlock lumber that Raymond Beardsley had sawn for us. It was very hard work getting it loaded, but the van body was large and easily accommodated the load. The trip up the hill to Echo Lake was another matter. I had difficulty learning the double-clutching required to shift and the truck was under-powered for that load. (it was a very heavy load) Somewhere between Burr Harrington’s farm and Miss Nettie Clark’s farm, Okie ran out of gears and power and stopped on a small grade. I coasted backward to a less steep grade, found the lowest gear, and restarted with the engine wound up. The transmission whined, but she made it.&nbsp;</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; After that episode I removed the big heavy steel van body and installed a homemade flatbed to lighten the truck. The flatbed was made from some old military trusses that Tom Griffin had, that had been left in his camp by Dr. Wood. When the van body was removed, the section that had been directly behind the cab (and thus concealed), said “Sooners” in faint outline that is still visible today.&nbsp;</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; With the new flatbed, the truck started a new life at Echo Lake. I dug an earth landing ramp in the side of the field at Echo Lake and Okie proceeded to take many loads of logs down to Beardsley sawmill. Logs were rolled on sideways by hand and rolled off (with some care and apprehension) at Beardsleys’. When I logged off the red pine from the Echo Lake East Hill farm, Okie drove right into the red pine woods and took the logs down to Beardsleys. Tom Griffin’s walls in his cottage are all red pine from those logs that were taken to the mill on Okie.&nbsp;</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; When I was teaching I had summers off and my friend Pat Hartigan and I made a deal. He would help me build a chimney in our house in Cortland from the basement, through the living room, through a second story closet, through a third story loft apartment with 12’ ceiling and up on the high hip roof. (chimney blocks are very heavy) In return, I promised to bring Okie and her companion 1949 Ford 8-N Ford tractor over to his house near Newark Valley to log his back woods. (I never determined who got the best of that deal…). I loaded the 8-N up on two railroad ties on Okie and chained it down tightly and drove the whole assembly to Newark Valley trying to stay on the back roads. All went well and she made several log trips to a local sawmill over that way.<br /></span> <span style="font-size: x-small;"> &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; One adventure that Chris and I still talk about was when I went to Les Strong’s auction at the Whitney Point gravel pit. I bought a lot of stuff including a 1948 Ford F-600 with a fuel tank (like a home heating oil truck) for $15. It did not run and did not have brakes, but the engine turned over (i.e., was not seized). I talked Chris and Phil Shaffner into coming with me to Les Strong’s. Chris drove her Pontiac GTO and Phil and I drove Okie. Okie had no exhaust system past the header pipe and roared very loudly. We chained up the two similar trucks, Chris followed behind with flashing lights and we started down the road. Phil drove Okie and I sat in the fuel truck to steer (no brakes). I kept the transmission in 3rd gear and whenever we had to slow up, I would let the clutch out to get the braking effect from turning the engine over. If you are an optimist, you could say that it worked to some extent, but there were a few bumped bumpers and jarred spinal columns by the time we made it to Echo Lake. As we came up South Street hill from Rt 79, Okie was roaring in a deafening cacophony with occasional bursts of flame and particulate blowing out from underneath as she pulled both trucks up the hill. We passed an older woman a few feet off the road who was stooped over tending her flowers. I thought she was sure to die from fright or have her ear drums burst, but she never moved or looked up as the parade of 3 vehicles moved slowly past! Chris and I recall that story every time we go by her house.<br /></span> <span style="font-size: x-small;"> &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; There are other stories, and certainly she had a grand old life before coming to Echo Lake.<br /></span> <span style="font-size: x-small;"> &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Eventually Okie began to sit longer and longer and had a little trouble getting started (6 volt battery). Eventually, she just stayed at her loading area above Buck Pond and seemed comfortable resting in her well-earned retirement. Okie was a good old girl!</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp; John H. Buck, June 2011</span></div><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"></span></span>Barriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04734292817835625102noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6174360288566294120.post-19291495143919545412011-07-26T09:53:00.003-04:002011-07-26T10:15:41.900-04:00<div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><b>RUST&nbsp; </b> Here's another self-congratulatory video featuring six new paintings, all with the general theme of Rust. I'm not sure which I like doing more, painting or putting together videos.&nbsp;</span></div><br /><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="250" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/YcVbcSgLLsA" width="410"></iframe>Barriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04734292817835625102noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6174360288566294120.post-2405034295309119852011-06-26T10:31:00.002-04:002011-06-26T10:33:44.827-04:00<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="265" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-QA73VLxUCv0/Tgc3_c-AWUI/AAAAAAAAB80/pSq0aD8hv8w/s400/kylemorelough.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="400" /></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Kylemore Lough</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-QA73VLxUCv0/Tgc3_c-AWUI/AAAAAAAAB80/pSq0aD8hv8w/s1600/kylemorelough.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"> </a></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><b>Innocents abroad&nbsp; </b>--&nbsp; this painting came at the expense of some very unhappy people.&nbsp;</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; We had driven out from Oughterard last November to visit Kylemore Abbey, deep in Connemara.&nbsp; After an hour or so at the Abbey, we set out headed East on Rt. 59 towards Lennane, and quickly came to short queue of cars waiting at a red temporary traffic light.&nbsp; Road work ahead.&nbsp; Of course in Ireland the roads are so narrow that any construction means single lane traffic and the flow of traffic is controlled by traffic lights at each end of the construction zone.&nbsp; It was a Sunday and no work was being done but the system is automated -- they have some device which counts the cars that have entered the zone and communicates that to the traffic light at the other end.&nbsp; After the same number of cars emerge at the other end, the light turns green allowing cars to move in the opposite direction.&nbsp;&nbsp;</span></div><div style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></div><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">&nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp; Fortunately the light turned green just as we pulled up behind the car in front of us and we were able to drive on, soon finding us beside the gorgeous Kylemore Lough. I was entranced by the twisted, leafless trees on the near shore and the green/orange mountain directly across the water.&nbsp; As is my habit I pulled well off the road, jumped out of the car and began photographing the scene, walking up and down the way to look for better views.&nbsp; After I had my fill, we headed off again down the road.&nbsp; Luckily there were no cars behind us so I was able to drive slowly and soak up the beauty. After a mile or two I came around a bend and to my horror saw a long line of cars facing me, all queued up behind a traffic light, wondering why in hell the light hadn't turned green by now!&nbsp; I passed them, eyes straight ahead, not glancing to see the expressions on the faces of the drivers.&nbsp; Thank God I would never see any of them again.&nbsp; But I did get a pretty nice painting out of it.</span><br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;Barriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04734292817835625102noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6174360288566294120.post-3286772032048925312011-04-19T11:24:00.008-04:002011-04-19T11:52:27.374-04:00<b><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; font-size: small;">Ireland in November</span></b>&nbsp; When we spent last November in the west of Ireland we found a totally different aspect, one which has great appeal to an arteeste such as Himself.&nbsp; Yes, it can be a rainy month, but the hills and bogs are smeared with orange.&nbsp; And there's just enough green to remind you why they call it the Emerald Isle.&nbsp; We spent a week each in Kerry (stayed in Dingle), Connemara (stayed in Oughterard), and S.W. Donegal near Ardara.&nbsp; Through it all I shot some video with my little Canon digital camera and put it together with a haunting aire I stumbled across.&nbsp; Here it is... view it in hi-def and full page size if your broadband is broad enough!&nbsp; <br /><br /><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="250" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/MYi1VX758fQ" title="YouTube video player" width="400"></iframe>Barriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04734292817835625102noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6174360288566294120.post-68059084662246063592011-03-27T15:27:00.000-04:002011-03-27T15:27:55.499-04:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-family: Verdana,sans-serif; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-H246V4YKHKg/TY-IcE3MBvI/AAAAAAAAB4U/2L1tBiXV6mM/s1600/IMG_0478.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-H246V4YKHKg/TY-IcE3MBvI/AAAAAAAAB4U/2L1tBiXV6mM/s200/IMG_0478.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-nHEZ_NhM18w/TY-IhhkK9JI/AAAAAAAAB4c/Ux4BrQiqurI/s1600/IMG_0483.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="132" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-nHEZ_NhM18w/TY-IhhkK9JI/AAAAAAAAB4c/Ux4BrQiqurI/s200/IMG_0483.jpg" width="200" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><b>"Bird Song" in Dublin</b>&nbsp; When we were in Dublin last November we could see this sculpture from the window of our room at Staunton's on the Green.&nbsp; I talked my way through the offices of the John Newman Center, next door, and into the back yard to get a closer look. I'm wild about it... a young priest distracted from his scripture readings by a bird call, a different "word of God."&nbsp; The sculptor is Bob Quinn, who lives in County Dublin and who, like me, spent decades in the advertising-graphic design-newspaper illustration game before jumping into his art full time.&nbsp;&nbsp;</span></span><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-fTF9eC6uiPA/TY-IZ4DaSrI/AAAAAAAAB4Q/sHXNKXUOjns/s1600/Best+N+ever+large+W3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-fTF9eC6uiPA/TY-IZ4DaSrI/AAAAAAAAB4Q/sHXNKXUOjns/s200/Best+N+ever+large+W3.jpg" width="133" /></a><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-7K2LhHhpEvI/TY-Ii8N885I/AAAAAAAAB4g/E0c7GnsWozY/s1600/img_55631.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-7K2LhHhpEvI/TY-Ii8N885I/AAAAAAAAB4g/E0c7GnsWozY/s1600/img_55631.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-7K2LhHhpEvI/TY-Ii8N885I/AAAAAAAAB4g/E0c7GnsWozY/s200/img_55631.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;</span></span><br /><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">As it happens, my granddaughter Kellie, visiting Dublin over Spring Break from her semester abroad in London, came across another wonderful sculpture in a Dublin public garden and posted a photo of it on her blog. I knew at first glance that it had to be a Bob Quinn piece.&nbsp; This one is called, "Best Night Ever," and when I wrote a fan letter to him he told me: <i>...the title comes from something my wife's Uncle always used to say back in the 60's when all the country female cousins would come down to breakfast after the dance the night before, "and did ye have the best night ye ever had?"&nbsp; I suppose the sculpture is&nbsp; meant as a monument to everyone's right to have fun-- you don't know what problems/difficulties those girls might be going through.</i></span></span><br /><br /><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Bob's website is <a href="http://www.bobquinn.ie/">http://www.bobquinn.ie</a></span></span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size: x-small;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-H246V4YKHKg/TY-IcE3MBvI/AAAAAAAAB4U/2L1tBiXV6mM/s1600/IMG_0478.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></span>Barriehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04734292817835625102noreply@blogger.com0